(This is the continuation of Part One. Scroll down the page to find the beginning.
This story has come up in conversation so often that I thought it needed to be recorded. Everything is true. The timeline, facts, and dialogue have not been altered. The names have been changed, mainly because I’m not sure of the statute of limitations for those still in the service.)
There were 4 of us and we moved in silence through the dark. Each of us carried two gallons of bright red Marine Corps paint as we crossed the ridgeline and descended into the newer, Army section of the base. The entire base was operated by the Army, making us Marines feel like interlopers whenever we ventured beyond our own quarterdeck. We would not have had it any other way.
The T-34 was a beast of iron and it loomed from the northern California mist like a nightmare. Several hour’s effort were required to coat the tank with red paint. We made rings on the tanks barrels, covered the turret, and poured the remaining gallons across the wide tank tracks. Exhausted, we trooped back across the ridge and slipped into our barracks. Sneaking downstairs into the paint locker with my key, we quietly cleaned the paint off our hands and arms with thinner. Then, careful not to alert the duty sergeant, we snuck out behind the barracks and washed ourselves in frigid water from a garden hose. Kamir and his cohorts retired safe in the knowledge that they had done something special. I crept up to my barracks room, started a pot of coffee, and commenced my preparations. An Army company would be waiting for me in just two hours time.
This story has come up in conversation so often that I thought it needed to be recorded. Everything is true. The timeline, facts, and dialogue have not been altered. The names have been changed, mainly because I’m not sure of the statute of limitations for those still in the service.)
There were 4 of us and we moved in silence through the dark. Each of us carried two gallons of bright red Marine Corps paint as we crossed the ridgeline and descended into the newer, Army section of the base. The entire base was operated by the Army, making us Marines feel like interlopers whenever we ventured beyond our own quarterdeck. We would not have had it any other way.
The T-34 was a beast of iron and it loomed from the northern California mist like a nightmare. Several hour’s effort were required to coat the tank with red paint. We made rings on the tanks barrels, covered the turret, and poured the remaining gallons across the wide tank tracks. Exhausted, we trooped back across the ridge and slipped into our barracks. Sneaking downstairs into the paint locker with my key, we quietly cleaned the paint off our hands and arms with thinner. Then, careful not to alert the duty sergeant, we snuck out behind the barracks and washed ourselves in frigid water from a garden hose. Kamir and his cohorts retired safe in the knowledge that they had done something special. I crept up to my barracks room, started a pot of coffee, and commenced my preparations. An Army company would be waiting for me in just two hours time.
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